


Knocked Out of Orbit

by Ent



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Modern Character in Thedas, Other, The Storm Coast (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ent/pseuds/Ent
Summary: When everyone you know is dead, and the only thing keeping you alive is your apparent inability to die and make it stick, wouldn't it just be easier to live, instead of constantly trying to die all the time?What a ridiculous question. Why bother trying to keep from dying when dying doesn't stick? Why bother keeping away from things that want you dead (dragons, bandits, vicious wardogs) when you can't die?





	1. What's Going On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am editing this as we speak, so! Yeah

This entire situation began when the world ended the first time- which is surely some kind of irony. It wasn’t even anything all that interesting, narratively speaking. 

 

No aliens had come to ravage the Earth, though arguments could be made otherwise. There was no second Cold War, ending in nuclear winter and slow, grueling starvation in underground bunkers. It wasn’t even the voracious, vicious appetite of industry that ended humanity’s reign over the Earth, which would have been my guess.

 

Instead, the vast majority of the planet got squished by giant rocks from space. How anticlimactic.

 

They knew it was coming, of course, which puts them one up on the dinosaurs, but they weren’t any better off in the end. Crime skyrocketed in the days following the leak- what government would  _ actually  _ tell their constituents that the world was ending?- which was  _ very _ exciting, but it went back down relatively soon after, which was not.

Our protagonist is a fairly average human, with a job and hair and a house; their job is boring, and they don’t like it because the decor resembles a cross between a taxidermy shop and an abandoned Cracker Barrel; their hair is fine, if in need of a trim; their house is old, dusty, and filled with memories, most of them positive. Their reaction to the news was quiet relief; it’s easy to live when you know you’re going to die.

 

Their boss- an unapologetically earnest man named Ernest- had made a speech earlier that day, as he prepared to return to his family in America. Our protagonist sat at home afterward, and tried very hard not to cry. They weren’t entirely sure why they were crying, and neither am I.

 

Perhaps it had something to do with the giant unresolved tangle of feelings they had for the man, who stood for more than simply their employer in their mind; he had been there for them when no one else had, but he was such a massive dick, too. They peered into the mug of liquor, eyes only mildly watering, and cursed softly. It must be so difficult, having feelings.

 

They had first met Ernest when both their parents were still alive; Ernest had only been visiting, at first. They must have been fourteen, fifteen years old, and they'd never met an American- never met any foreigner, in fact.

 

Ernest was handsome, charming, funny, and there was no one else in the entire world our protagonist wanted to be more. They emulated him, but weren't quite confident enough to imitate his accent- at least, not in front of anyone but their own reflection. He probably knew about their horrifically embarrassing crush, even then. Most of their friend group had noticed, and none of them exactly knew how to keep mum- about, well, anything, including secrets. 

 

They didn’t have any friends, not anymore. The few friends they’d managed to keep had all left to be with their families from out of town. Their girlfriend had left them, claiming a need for space- interesting, since she and her new girlfriend didn’t seem to need any at all. Their family were all long dead, and the few who were left wanted nothing to do with them. Yikes, abandonment issues, hello.

 

The three months leading up to the moment of impact were spent holed up in their little house, days spent either drunk off their skull or mainlining video games- some days it was even both! Those days were interesting- the mad cackling bothered the neighbours, but they never did anything about it because, well. Our protagonist had an exaggerated reputation, to be sure, but nothing about it was technically false.

 

Yes, they were gay, and yes, they were a satanist- in high school, along with half their grade-, and yes, they were “a trans”. They were fine with it, honestly. It didn’t hurt at all that they were shunned in the grocery store, the liquor store, the drugstore (the sidewalk, the crosswalk…).

 

Honestly, if I were in possession of eyes they’d be rolling out of my head; their emotional repression and constant moping was the worst part of waiting for annihilation, save perhaps the waiting itself.

 

The meteors’ arrival was breathtaking- or, it would have been, were I not a narrative device. They were huge, immense enough that canyons and craters could be made out on the surfaces of the nearest ones. There was every possibility that, somehow, someone had survived being crushed simply because the meteor had too large or deep a crater in that specific place.

 

Our protagonist was not one of those lucky people.

 

It was very quick, at least, and only painful for a second. The giant rock that killed them leveled the entire town; not a single person remained- not alive, anyway. Our protagonist was the only one who rose again, hence their role as protagonist.

 

Their ascent into orbit was less flight than it was instantaneous teleportation- one moment the narrative was focused on their screaming spirit, trapped beneath a rock and inside their own body, and the next it- along with their spirit- was floating, miles above the Earth.

 

They were aware, with a distant horror, that they were no longer alive. Questions swirled in their mind, thoughts bumping into thoughts and muddying themselves for- honestly, a really embarrassing amount of time. They took nearly seven  _ thousand _ years to come to terms with their death, let alone the rest of it- talk about procrastinating, jeez.

 

Their attention did gradually shift toward their surroundings, the world drifting past underneath. They weren't moving much, or at least not so that they could feel or see it; the world turned, but they did not turn with it.

 

The sun was a constant, fiery nuisance shining on and reflecting off of things; the inner workings of the planet below was hidden by the now-abundant cloud cover. Distantly, they were filled with the knowledge that, even if they were able to return to Earth, nothing would ever be the same. Obviously. What a stupid realization! They were dead, of course nothing would be the same.

 

The cloud cover eventually thinned a bit, landmasses and islands peeping out and disappearing as weather patterns patterned; they were not the same. Swathes of land were now underwater, and they could still see the ridged lines and craters formed by the meteors. By all accounts, the meteors themselves had simply vanished. Nothing of them remained, save for the evidence of their landing. 

 

I cannot even begin to describe the amount of angst and anguish and  _ thoughts _ our protagonist had about that, so I shan't even try.

 

Their re-entry to Earth was as sudden as their departure. With it came searing pain that settled in their bones like molten lead; it wasn't actually pain, not precisely. It's amazing how dreadfully wires can get crossed, especially when your narrative device has no idea how human bodies are put together.

 

They came to next to a boat that had seen better days. The sand around them had obviously been disturbed, and recently; a fire was still burning in the lee of the ship, though by the tide it would be out in a few minutes.

 

Our protagonist watched the fire go out as they thought on their situation; it was fucked, simply put. They couldn't move, couldn't remember how to swim, and the tide was upon them. With each breath the water creeped closer, until it was up to their chest; whoever had begun the fire had propped them up against the ship, which saved them from finding out how long it took to drown.

 

By this point, the reality of the situation had sunk its claws into our protagonist's heart; this was nothing like the isolation-dreams. This was real- realer than anything they'd experienced for thousands of years. There hadn’t been any real fear before, nothing outside of their control.  _ This  _ was real fear. It was strange, but it was… exciting. Their impending death was exciting. What a strange realization! What an odd, weird thing to think!

 

Before they knew it they were laughing, dumb little giggles and snorts and cackles that nearly sent their head underwater; it was just all so ridiculous! Imagine, you get squished by a giant rock and then your spirit teleports into outer orbit? And then you come back? And you’re alive? But you’re also going to die? What the fuck!

 

The tide wasn't so bad, actually. The day was warm, and it didn't seem as if the tide would come any higher, and the water was nice anyways. Maybe they wouldn't die, but if they did it wouldn't be so bad. Better than being crushed, probably.Their Their body hurt already, and they'd heard- or maybe read- that drowning was one of the less painful ways to die, so they'd be fine, probably.

 

They'd be dead, probably. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe  _ they  _ would keep going, like before, but stay contained within their decomposing corpse, like some bizarre twist on their previous imprisonment!

 

Their laughter petered out eventually. The sun was still high in the sky, the sea was still warm, and the tide, luckily, had stopped when they were chest-deep. The issue of the campfire's creator had not yet been resolved; was it someone who had been on the ship, who had left and simply never come back? Why make the fire, then?

 

They slept, eventually, when the sky was significantly darker; the sun went down with little ceremony, the blue of the sky bled away into night faster than it seemed it rightly should- or perhaps only faster than they'd remembered it going.

 

Their dreams were strange. Demons clothed in the faces of their dead family members danced and cavorted over their prone body before slipping out of their skins and into tiny bumper cars, which crawled and raced over our protagonist’s body like ants on an anthill.

 

Waking was a gradual process. The tide had gone out, receding into the crevices of distant boulders, and their clothing- clothing! How strange it was to be wearing clothes again- was filled with sand, and little crabs fell out of creases in the fabric as they shifted from the slumped position they'd slept in.

 

They stretched and yawned- and then stopped.


	2. Luck Be A Lady Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is nothing but filler but I'm tired of looking at it. Have some dreams, I guess?

The first thing they noticed was, of course, the return of movement. The second was the sudden, prickling agony lancing along their bones; must be inconvenient, having limbs that feel as though they're made of angry bees. The pain settled eventually into a- familiar! They could remember feeling this, so long ago- persistent ache.

 

The novelty of feeling pain again quickly got old, though. The ensuing struggle to move- at least a little!- did nothing except exhaust our protagonist and smear them with wet ash.

 

“Shit,” they said. They sat for a moment, then perked up.

 

“Fuck!” They shouted, following it up with a gleeful holler, like a toddler learning their first swear word. It was truly wonderful to be able to talk again, to be heard, if only by their own ears. Of course, the problem of not being able to walk- or move at all, really- was not resolved, but at least they were entertained.

 

Several hours were whiled away with the vigorous creation of new and increasingly inventive swears, and several hours after that were spent in quiet contemplation. That is to say, our protagonist lost their voice and was forced to stare at the encroaching ocean with only the barest of squeaks for company.

 

The rising tide was approaching quickly, much faster than it had the previous day. Soon, the water was up to their neck- and it didn't stop there. By the time the sun had set, their face was almost completely submerged; the only thing keeping them from inhaling water was the unnatural angle of their neck. Even so, they were forced to dip their entire head into the water every few minutes to keep the cramps at bay.

 

The night passed like a kidney stone. Every half-hour they would jerk awake, spluttering and choking, and slowly drift back to sleep. The tide receded sometime around dawn, and our protagonist was finally able to rest.

 

The sun was high and bright in the sky by the time they awoke, and the tide had receded far past the distant boulders- which was worrisome. The previous night had been bad enough, and the next would definitely be worse.

 

The only thing to be done was crawling further up the shore- exhausting, to be sure, but doable, now that they could finally control more than half their body. They collapsed facedown in the sand eventually, and didn't get back up.

 

They dreamt that they were drowning- or maybe they didn't. It felt nothing like dying, but then again, their only experience with death was getting crushed. The water cushioned them, nothing like a bed but so much more comfortable- comforting!- than the hard sand of the nights before. Deep below them were the remnants of cities, skyscrapers filled with sand and salt, forgotten rivers coursing underneath the waves.

 

They felt very small and very insignificant, all at once. Their breath, their movements affected nothing of the silent scene below. No matter how hard they swam, they could not return, they could not set the scene to rights. Where were the people? Where were the lights, the life? Where were they, if not on Earth? They hung silent, suspended in the grip of the sea, and knew that they were alone.

 

They dreamt, later, that they were back home, in their grandmother’s back garden. They were nine again, and pulling out her roses. They kept digging, thorns and stems and petals turning into glass splinters in their grip. When they stopped, their arms were so mangled, so bloody they could hardly bear the sight of them. The air was heavy with salt, an incongruity in the lowveld that went unnoticed until it was the only thing they could notice, aside from the pain. Tears coursed down their cheeks, and with the tears came the rush of waves all around them.

 

Waking was slow. They were dry, no trace of dampness anywhere. Their head was pounding as if they’d been crying all night, but their face was entirely dry.

 

The details of the dream were gone, eroded by the sunlight, but the fear remained. The fear would always remain. It stayed, even though they were free now- for a given value of free, anyway. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop, because it lived on within them, and would do so forever.

 

However frightening the dream had been, it didn't keep them from getting away from the water. Their own unsteadiness might have kept them from standing for long, but by gum they managed it. Small victories perhaps, but not nothing.

 

Boredom sank in around noon, making the hours drag on with vicious rigidity. The obvious solution was, of course, mindless self-pleasuring, but even that course of action was blocked off to them- mainly by virtue of the fact that there was nothing to pleasure.

 

The discovery of their newly-flat nethers sent them into a tirade that shocked the feathers off a passing swallow, but in the end there was nothing they could do but wonder. And swear, obviously. Further exploration revealed that, yes, they really had no external genitalia, and no, it did not feel any more pleasurable or sensitive to the touch than any other part of their body. Bummer, must suck not having pleasure organs.

 

Anyway, they did manage to get up again, eventually, and even made it further into the tree cover before collapsing. They gasped and panted the entire way there, and the rivulets of sweat that ran down their back were not fun. The shade provided some relief from the sun, thankfully, but it did not help the sunburn that had formed over the past two days.

 

It really had been two days, hadn't it. It was unbelievable- amazing, even. They really were alive. They were also starving, and dreadfully thirsty. Our poor protagonist sat on the ground and groused about the state of their stomach- empty-, their hair- salty-, and got nothing done about fixing either of their problems. Instead, as usual, they waited for things to get intolerable before bothering to get up and do something about it.

 

I won't go into detail about how long it took to get intolerable, because that in itself is intolerable. I was- that is, they were- saved from their bullshit by a curious fisherman.


	3. To the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's up this is short but I don't care <3
> 
>  
> 
> (It's in present tense now, I guess! Whoops)

The fisherman's hut is cramped and blessedly cool. He helps them sit in a chair, carefully busying himself- as they slowly begin breathing again instead of gasping for every breath- with a linen packet of dried leaves and a kettle of water on the fire; tea, perhaps, but they couldn’t be sure. 

“I don't have much, I'm afraid, but what I do have I can share.” The cup is fragrant, but unlike any tea they’d ever smelled before. It smells like metal, and coats their tongue in a greasy film with a taste reminiscent of anise. The film stays on their tongue no matter how roughly they scrape it against their teeth.

“Thank you,” they say, after remembering that they are not alone. The man’s face is crinkled in a small smile, and he chuckles.

“No need, friend. Were you shipwrecked?” His voice is friendly, affable. They take another sip of their tea, rubbing their tongue along their gums. They frown.

“I think so. I can't remember anything.” They're not even lying, technically. They can't remember getting shipwrecked. 

“Shame, that. You remember your name, at least?” 

“No. I don't… I don't remember.” It’s not hard to fake upset at that- they genuinely can’t remember it. Pity is apparent on the old man's face, his mouth opening, probably to say something nice. A change in topic is absolutely necessary. “Is there a town- a settlement, nearby?”

The old fisherman rubs a hand across his mouth, stubble going skritch-skritch. It’s a good sound. “Nearest big town is Crestwood, but that's hardly nearby… some folks livin’ near Morrin's Outlook, surfacers. Kind folk, if odd."

They don’t have anything to add to that, and silently drink more of their tea, hoping that their face doesn’t give away their bewilderment. The two sit in silence for longer than is entirely comfortable for the old man. He goes outside when it gets to be too much and comes back a moment later, dragging a net behind him.

“Seeing as you’ll be living with me for now, I might as well show you the ropes,” he chuckles, again, “or twine, as it were.”

The old man dumps a section of net onto the table in front of them before they can say anything. His presumption is at least paired with a short lesson on the various knots and fiddly hand motions, but it's not a very good one.

“It’s simple, once you get used to it,” the fisherman says. He is a liar, because it is not simple at all and, in fact, is very difficult. The needle is nearly too dull for them to prick their fingers with it, but they manage it anyway.

“I…” The fisherman sighs. “I’m impressed but concerned.”

They shrug, embarrassed. The old man shakes his head and sets the netting aside, putting the needles and thread in a hinged wooden box.

What he has to give is very little, but he shares anyway. The thin soup he gives them tastes vaguely reminiscent of fish, though the saltiness of the broth nearly overwhelms it. They eat in silence.

He gives them a crunchy straw pallet and a thin blanket when they retire for the night, upon which they toss and turn for what seems like the entire night. They dream, in fits and spurts.

In the dream, they are so hungry that it hurts, stomach cramping so fiercely they can't think, can't even breathe. The hunger climbs up their body in a trembling crescendo until it is all they are. In between waking and falling asleep again, they savage their arms with their teeth, sating the phantom hunger with their own flesh- perhaps it is more accurate to say skin, but that doesn’t really gel with the narrative flow, now does it? Regardless, the dream is different when they slipped back to sleep.

The hunger is still there, still an ever-present ache, but now they understood. They could not go on alone. The dream shifts into a scene worthy of a nightmare. They are stood at the edge of an underwater cliff with pockets full of stones. It is so quiet; they can hear the movement of waves on a surface so far above they cannot see it. Their footing is solid, but they know, deep inside their bones, that they will slip, eventually, and fall, further and deeper into the abyss.

The dream changes again but only a little, only incrementally. First, they turn. Behind them is- or was- a great reef. They had been to be Great Barrier Reef, once. This was nothing like that. The reef before them now was well and truly dead, polyps bleached and the corpses of fish coating the sea floor. They step closer out of a morbid curiosity, but as they approach, the scene changes again.

Now, it shimmers with life; the coral is vibrant, small lives teeming within its borders. It's utterly beautiful. The shimmering masses parted, revealing a glimpse of a pale woman, and then there was nothing, not even the sea.

It was infinite darkness and infinite space; a nightmare, and a familiar one. It's difficult not to dream when all you can do is think and sleep. The dream isn't really a dream- there's no narrative, no deeper meaning. All that there is, is nothing.


End file.
